


Hands

by shihadchick



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-08-08
Updated: 2002-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:27:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two rock stars, one limo, you do the math.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands

Hands.

That's the first thing you notice. The first thing you feel, actually. Warm, strong, firm hands that pull you inside the darkened interior of the limousine, more enthusiasm than skill in the tug, as you go sprawling over the body inside. Then you're rudely shoved aside, brushed off onto the seat for just a moment as the other reaches out and slams the door shut again behind you. And then he slides onto your lap, kneeling over you, pressing into you, and you think hazily that you have not even left the venue yet. And that you most likely won't notice when you do.

The privacy screen is already up - and so your first instinctive, yet for all it's necessity, half-hearted objection dies unspoken - and the smooth purr of an expensive engine throbs subtly through the air, vibrates through the leather of the seat as the driver starts the car.

But the appreciation of the good service, of the elegant - or more pertinently, expensive - vehicle is utterly lacking, because those hands have wasted no time, are attached to a hungry, needy body which refuses to take no for an answer.

Not that either of you is saying 'no'. Or thinking 'no'. Not that 'no' ever crossed anyone's mind.

Quite the opposite.

The hands, careful, deliberate, are feathering across your chest, now, spinning idle circles in the dusting of hair, tracing abstract art around a nipple, rubbing and pinching and stroking and caressing. Your lips are joined, kissing hard and hot and  
heavy, all teeth and tongues, and moans and whimpers.

Need is the theme of the night.

Another whining plaint slips past your guard, between your lips as that body grinds against you, as he rocks his pelvis insistently against yours, and even if you hadn't already been so hard, so focused on the diamond sharp want that must be  
spilling in tangible shape from your skin, too much for you to contain; even if you hadn't been needing so badly you could taste it, it would have been instant arousal. Like being fifteen all over again. Although you're pretty sure you can last longer these days.

Maybe.

You revise this opinion hastily as those hands tug down the fastening of your pants, slip inside and torment you, digging into your hip, running along the line of your pelvic bone, nails scratching the top of your thigh.

You squirm, hinting - lower, closer, oh god, please...

And conscious of the shrinking window of time available, he leaves off the teasing - although to be truthful you enjoy it nearly as much as he does - and slides easily off the seat, kneeling on the floor, resting back on his heels for a second, and your eyes widen.

Not here, he can't be- there's not- oh.. Oh, God...

And the slippery leather is good for one thing, because your trousers slide easily over it, pool around your ankles, and his hands are at your waist, pressing you back into the seat, your head falling back onto the headrest, the leather warm and  
butter-soft against your back and your legs and your ass, although you don't have long to appreciate the sensation, because those lips are wrapping around you, that pink tongue darting out to take a long, slow lick from the root of your cock to the tip, describing a slow arc over the head, making you shudder and gasp.

And then, despite the building tension in your muscles, the subliminal urges to let your head loll back, you're straightening up, looking down to watch his head move between your legs, to admire the hollow cavity of his cheeks as he sucks, the visual  
element somehow equally as rewarding as the tactile. The sight and the sensation slowly becoming indistinguishable, the tiny creaking sounds of your body shifting on the leather, of the cries that you don't bother censoring, the pleased hums that he's making, that seem to run straight from your dick to your heart to your head, hammering at you until you feel like you'll shatter.

And, oh, what a beautiful disaster that will be...

His name is your only chorus now, shaking and falling from your lips, a different cadence on every repeat, filling the air, as you shudder and twitch and jerk, fucking his mouth now, control out the metaphorical (and thankfully closed and tinted) windows.

...so close so desperate so needy.

And when you say his name with that peculiar inflection, the half gasp on the second syllable that always signifies your climax, as the first spasms run through you, he finally looks up at you, meets your eyes. His are darkened with desire, something you always write off as pure hyperbole, except in these moments when you realise it's nothing less than truth.

And that moment of utter stillness catches you, holds you steady in that sapphire gaze as pleasure builds, washes around you, ocean deep; as it stretches and plucks at you, tightening and tightening... until you snap. Until you groan, and your back  
arches off the seat, as convulsions race through your muscles and you spill yourself into his mouth. Until the last shudders run their course, let you sink, sated and messy, back onto the leather. Until he pushes himself upright again, arranges himself so carefully over your lap once more and presses sticky, eager kisses to your mouth.

And you say thank you nicely, and then with a grin and then a laugh, and you make exorbitant promises about what you can do when you get to your room, and what he can do to you. And you keep kissing him as he helps you dress, as you both make sure the other appears presentable for the mad dash from car to room once the hotel is reached. And then, shrouded in innocence, the two of you step casually out of the car and thank the driver. He beats you to the room door, demonstrably rushing, and turns impatient to look at you. And you quirk an eyebrow and smile that upside-down grin of yours, sashay past him to unlock the door before stepping inside, and once inside, with the door safely shut and the world locked out once more, you look him in the eyes.

And you wink.


End file.
